


"DARK NIGHT OF THE TWIN SOULS"

by Slasherfem



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slasherfem/pseuds/Slasherfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picard and Q, as two private investigators in an Alternate Universe detective movie scenario, try to keep themselves and their love alive under dangerous conditions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"DARK NIGHT OF THE TWIN SOULS"

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a Dixon Hill story, but Q kept butting in until I finally gave up and made him a character too. It worked so well that I decided to take it out of the holodeck and into an alternate universe. I had a lot of fun writing it, and I like to think that my favorite Star Trek characters had fun appearing in it as well. 
> 
> By the way, as part of my legal disclaimer: No, I am not trying to steal Paramount's intellectual property. No, I do not intend to sell or distribute this for profit. No, the threat of legal retribution does not scare me, unless the rumored new Star Trek series flops and Paramount becomes desperate to recoup its losses by suing all the fanfic writers. And finally, yes, I am a Trekker, and no, I do not live with my parents!

 PART ONE

October 10th, 1945: Another rainy night in New York City, somewhere on Lower Broadway, not far from the theater district. Inside a cheap hotel named The Albany, an unshaven desk clerk lounged behind the front desk, reading the racing form. His suit jacket had seen better days; it was the same shade of faded blue as his eyes, whose jaundiced whites had also seen better days. The worn, shiny bottom of his matching pants was firmly planted in the cracked leather seat of his chair behind the front desk, whose worn wooden surface was clean but dull.

The rest of the lobby was in the same shape. The rug had faded to bluish-grey from the numerous feet that had walked on it since the early 1920's. The two lounge chairs beneath the tall floor lamp in the center of the lobby had split seats concealed beneath their faded, but clean, blue chair covers. The lamp's low wattage bulb was just bright enough to read by, if you enjoyed eyestrain, and the magazines on the little table beneath the lamp went back to the Hoover administration. The whole joint was just one step above a flophouse. Only the lost and the desperate would stop here, on their way to or from something else. Two such lost souls now came through the door, just as the desk clock finished striking ten.

The two men came through the glass-fronted lobby door of The Albany, both wearing tan trench coats and fedoras pulled low over their faces, both soaking wet. The taller one was the only one carrying a bag, in his left hand; he was using his right arm to prop up the other man, who was dragging his feet as if he was sick or very tired. As they came up to the registration desk, the clerk hastily put aside his paper and got to his feet, looking professional. "May I help you, gentlemen?" he asked.

"Yes, you can be a big help by giving us a room for the night," the taller man informed him, in a tenor voice whose insolent tone came from either lack of breeding or plain smartaleckiness. "Nothing fancy, just two beds and a place to hang our hats and coats. We've been traveling all day and we're dead on our feet. At least my friend is." He looked at the shorter man on his arm with some concern.

"I'm all right," the shorter man insisted. His baritone voice sounded more refined, with a hint of a foreign accent, but unmistakably weary. "I just need to lie down for a while."

"Of course, sir," the desk clerk assured him sympathetically. "I've got a nice room available on the third floor, with two beds. Ten dollars a night."

"We'll take it." The taller man put down his bag and reached for his wallet. As he did so, his companion leaned against the front desk heavily, his head hanging down. He raised his head to take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Beneath the brim of his fedora, the clerk could see he had a clean-shaven face with a prominent nose and a dimple in his chin. He was also white, too white. The pallor of his skin hinted at illness, though he never said a word of complaint.  He just kept taking deep breaths and breathing out slowly, as he gripped the edge of the desk until the knuckles on his small, elegant hands turned white.

"Sign here, sir, please," The desk clerk slid the register book toward the taller man. He signed it quickly, then pulled a ten out of a pigskin wallet, threw it on the desk and got a receipt and a room key marked 3601. The eyes beneath his fedora were brown, his face was white and set in grim lines, his full mouth was tight with tension. His tension became more obvious when he saw his companion was on the verge of collapse. The smaller man was now swaying on his feet with his eyes closed, looking like he was going to faint.

"Easy, Johnny!" The taller man took a firm hold of his companion's arm. "Take it easy. We'll be upstairs soon, then you can lie down while I fetch you some aspirin."

"Oh yes, that would be lovely," murmured the shorter man as he leaned heavily on his companion's arm.

"Is there an elevator?" the other man asked anxiously. "He's in no shape to climb stairs."

"Right over there, sir." The clerk pointed to the elevator at the far right end of the lobby, right by the stairs. "Sorry there's no bellhop. Do you need help carrying your baggage?"

"No thanks, we'll manage." The tall stranger in the damp trench coat deftly maneuvered his friend and his bag to the elevator. He let go of his friend only long enough to press the button, then grabbed hold of him and held him up. The other man was trying to stand up straight, but he was either too tired or too sick to do so. When the elevator door opened, the taller man eased him inside and propped him against the rear wall before pressing the floor button.

As the elevator door closed on his guests, the desk clerk looked at the register to see who they were. He wasn't surprised to see the names "John Quincy Adams" and "John Smith"; very few guests in this particular hotel signed in under their real names. _*Oh well,*_ the clerk thought with a shrug, _*as long as they pay in advance and don't get too loud, they can call themselves John and Mary for all I care.*_ He went back to his racing form as the rain kept falling, dripping down the glass doors of The Albany like teardrops.

********

As soon as they got to their room, Jean-Luc allowed himself to collapse upon the nearest bed. His partner, after hanging the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the outside knob, shut and locked the door, then went to check on him. He wasn't happy to see how pale and weak he was, lying sprawled on the bed in his damp coat and hat.

"Sit up, Jean-Luc. Let me help you out of your damp things," Q coaxed him as he turned on the lamp on the bedside table in the dark, windowless room.

"I can do it," Jean-Luc insisted, sitting up slowly. His breathing was heavy, now they were not in public, and he carefully avoided leaning on his left arm.

"Let me help you," the other man repeated, quickly shedding his own damp outerwear and hanging it in the closet by the door, revealing a burgundy suit, black shirt and burgundy tie. He knelt before Jean-Luc and unbuttoned his coat for him, then carefully eased it off. Despite his gentleness, Jean-Luc let out a hiss of pain, clenching his teeth as his bloodstained grey suit jacket was exposed. Snatching Jean-Luc's hat off, revealing a bald head surrounded by short, white hair, Q quickly hung up both coat and hat, then went for his bag by the door. He snatched it up and dumped it on the other bed on the right side of the room. After turning on the lamp on that side so he could see what he was doing, he opened the bag and rummaged through it until he found the first aid kit.

By this time, Jean-Luc had managed to remove his suit jacket, revealing a white scarf wrapped around his left shoulder, acting as both bandage and tourniquet.  The scarf was only a little bit bloodstained, but the stain got bigger as Q watched him sitting there, head hung low, looking sadly at the bloodstained jacket. "Such a shame," he murmured regretfully. "I've only worn this suit twice."

"Let's make sure you're not buried in it." Q removed his own suit jacket, laid out his medical supplies and went to work, first unwrapping the bloody scarf.  Seeing the bullet wound still sluggishly bleeding, he pressed the scarf back against it and told Jean-Luc to hold it there. He complied while Q ran into the bathroom for some clean towels, which he draped over and around his partner to keep his blood from staining the cheap blue quilted bedspread. After making sure he had fresh bandages, gauze and tape laid out, along with the tools he would need, he produced a small white envelope, studied the contents and fished out two pills.

"Here, take these. They'll ease the pain." As Jean-Luc dry-swallowed the pills, Q also produced a small bottle of brandy. "So will this," he added as he uncapped it.  Jean-Luc didn't argue; he took a few generous swallows to wash down the pills and fortify himself for the removal of the bullet in his shoulder.

After rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands, Q poured alcohol over the forceps in the first aid kit, then set about probing for the bullet in Jean-Luc's shoulder. It was painful and messy, but the injured man endured it bravely, clenching his teeth and swallowing his screams when the pain became too great, swearing softly in French the rest of the time. By the time Q was finished, Jean-Luc looked ready to faint. But he remained upright while his partner disinfected the wound and bandaged it, using plenty of clean gauze and tape. He then whisked away the blood-stained towels and helped his partner finish undressing, got him into the bed and under the covers. After his partner had given him more brandy to wash down a couple more pills, this time an antibiotic to prevent infection, Jean-Luc lay down and quietly passed out.

Q stuffed the bloody towels, shirt, jacket and scarf into a pillowcase stripped from one of the pillows on his bed. After making sure there was no one outside, Q put his coat and hat back on and left the room with the pillowcase filled with evidence of the crude surgery.  He went down the stairs so he could scope out the lobby.  Seeing it was empty, he waited until he heard the desk clerk on the phone with his bookie before walking out casually, holding the pillowcase in his right hand, which faced away from the desk.

He disposed of the pillowcase at a distance from the hotel, making sure nobody was following him. He took a different route back, stopping to buy some food at a diner.  When he got back to the hotel, he found the clerk busy checking someone else in, so he walked quietly past the front desk and went up the stairs with his bag of food.

Letting himself in, he found his partner still out like a light. After hanging up his wet outerwear, he took a cardboard container of hot soup from the bag, sat down beside Jean-Luc and stroked his forehead to wake him and check for fever.

"Jean-Luc, wake up, Jean-Luc," Q said softly, relieved to find his friend's forehead still blessedly cool. It took a bit more stroking and gentle coaxing before he opened his eyes. "How do you feel?"

"Like hell," Jean-Luc admitted, baritone voice rumbling with irritation and pain.

"Do you need more pain pills?"

"No thanks, the ones you gave me took the edge off. I can stand it. I just don't like it."

"I got you some chicken soup with rice. You need to eat something."

"Do I have to?" Jean-Luc groaned. "Oh, all right!  Help me sit up." Q did so, propping him up with pillows. Jean-Luc insisted upon holding the soup container himself, first tasting it with the plastic spoon, then drinking from it. While he was drinking his soup, Q got a couple of chicken salad sandwiches out of the bag and ate one, washing it down with coffee. When Jean-Luc reached for his own sandwich, Q triumphantly produced a cardboard cup full of his favorite Earl Grey tea. That made Jean-Luc happy enough to eat the whole sandwich, just so he could wash it down with the tea. While he was eating he asked, "Is it safe?"

"Yes, I'm sure nobody followed us," Q replied. "I made sure nobody saw me coming or going from here. Now we just have to sit tight until we hear from my contact in the NYPD."

"Have you called him?"

"Yes, there was a phone booth in the diner by the bathrooms, so I used it while I was waiting for the sandwiches. Good thing I did, they had just put out an APB on our subject describing him as 'Armed and extremely dangerous'."

"Humph! Nice of them to warn us, after the fact." Jean-Luc looked at his bandaged left shoulder pointedly.

"Who knew he was more than an errand boy?  If I'd known, I wouldn't have spoken to him like that."

"Yes, telling him you wanted to speak to the organ grinder, not his monkey, wasn't a good move on your part."

"Don't remind me!" Q groaned. "Me and my big mouth have already gotten us into trouble more than once."

"Don't remind me, I'm the one who has to get us out of the trouble you get us into."

"And nobody does it better," Q assured him with a smile, toasting him with his coffee cup.

Jean-Luc let out another "Humph!" as he finished his sandwich. That and the hot tea helped take the taste of cheap brandy out of his mouth. When he was finished, he lay back and closed his eyes, sighing wearily. "I think I will have another one of those pain pills, just to help me sleep."

Q complied, fishing the little envelope with the emergency medication out of his shirt pocket. This time Jean-Luc asked for water to wash it down. The tap water in the bathroom came out rusty at first, but cleared up after it had run awhile. At least it was cold. So was the room; the ancient radiator didn't do much to heat it up, but there were plenty of blankets, thick and clean, though faded pale blue from repeated washings. After taking his pills, Jean-Luc lay down and closed his eyes as Q thoughtfully shut off the lamp by his bed.

As soon as his partner had settled down for the night, Q got ready to retire too. First he sneaked out into the hallway and jimmied open the closet where they kept the linen, so he could replace the missing towels and pillowcase. After neatly rearranging everything so the theft wouldn't be noticed, he crept back into their room, locked the door and hung the towels in the bathroom, put the pillowcase on his naked pillow, then proceeded to undress. He stripped down to his underwear, revealing the gun strapped to his right ankle. He reloaded it before putting it under his pillow, replacing the four bullets he'd fired earlier. He didn't know if he had hit the Italian bastard, having been too busy dragging his injured partner away. Jean-Luc's gun was still fully loaded, since he'd never had a chance to use it.

It had all happened so fast. One minute they were in the old abandoned theater arguing over the price of guns, the next minute they were using them. He hadn't known that the man they were talking to was more than just a cheap thug buying weapons for his mob boss. He had turned out to be Marco Amaro, the head of one of the local families, whose son had been killed by a member of a rival family during the San Gennero Festival last month.

The festival, held every year in New York's Little Italy from September 11th to the 21st, was considered sacred by the Catholic Church, therefore too sacred to do any mob business on, especially killing. But some hot head had forgotten that and shot Amaro's son during a fight over a girl at a church dance. So the dead boy's father was determined to avenge his son with some heavy artillery, along with some hired muscle from Philly, where he and Jean-Luc were from.  This particular mobster had a big price on his head, and the firm of P.Q. Private Investigators currently had a cash flow problem. So Q had persuaded his reluctant partner to take the job of impersonating the muscle from Philly, after one of his old contacts in New York's Finest had called to let him know how much was in it for them if they busted this _goomba._

As Q got under the covers and turned out the lamp beside his bed, he was starting to wish they had stayed home in Philly. After Amaro had started shooting, Q had shot back, hitting at least two of the four bodyguards who had accompanied him; then he had bugged out, taking Jean-Luc with him. In his haste, he had been forced to abandon his partner's bag in the old theater, but at least he had been able to grab his own bag, which contained the first aid kit and some emergency medication for times like this. The Boy Scouts weren't the only ones who believed in being prepared. Now, if they could only get through this night without his partner coming down with an infection, or Amaro tracing them to this joint, he could confer with his contact in the morning to find out what to do next; go after the bastard and put a bullet in him for the one in Jean-Luc, or cut his losses and go home.

Home...funny how good that word sounded, now that there was somebody to come home to. He and his partner hadn't been together too long, but every time they got together in bed it felt as good as the first time. Too bad he was injured; he would have liked sleeping with him, keeping him warm in this damned cold, cheap hotel room. But what would the maid think when she came to change the beds and found only one used? Q didn't really give a damn, but he knew how modest his partner was. No, he'd better stay where he was, for Jean-Luc's sake. He was in enough pain. No sense in adding to it, even if it was comforting to hold him at night.

A low moan from the other bed made Q sit up quickly. "Johnny?" he called anxiously into the dark. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing," Jean-Luc hastened to assure him. "I'm just trying to find a comfortable position."

Q got up and went over in his skivvies to see what was wrong. He turned on the lamp again to examine his partner's injured shoulder. "Is it bleeding?"

"No, it's fine, really," Jean-Luc insisted. "I just lay on it the wrong way."

Q examined it anyway and was relieved to find the bandage still clean and dry. "All right, let's make you more comfortable." He fetched an extra pillow from his own bed and put it under the injured shoulder. "There, how does that feel?"

"Better, thanks." Jean-Luc lay back, grateful for his partner's attentiveness.

"Do you need another blanket? It's damned cold in here."

"Stay and keep me company, then."

"Are you serious? You know I find you irresistible." Q whispered in his ear in an exaggeratedly sexy way.

Jean-Luc laughed softly. "Even you wouldn't be shameless enough to take advantage of me in this condition."

"Don't be so sure." He curled up under the covers and wrapped himself around him, cradling him gently to spare his shoulder.

"Oh, I'm always sure of you." Jean-Luc nestled against him and shut his eyes.

Q held him tenderly, putting up with the light shining in his eyes so he wouldn't disturb his partner's rest. As soon as Jean-Luc was still and his breathing even enough to indicate deep sleep, Q carefully reached up to turn off the lamp. He then settled down, warm and contented beside his partner, making sure Jean-Luc's own gun was hidden under his pillow before allowing himself to fall asleep too.

 

PART TWO

October 11, 1945: Q woke up at 6:00 a.m. without an alarm clock, as he was accustomed to doing since his Army days. As much as he had hated the Army, it had taught him some useful survival skills that the orphanage he had grown up in had failed to teach. The first thing he did was turn on the lamp, get out of bed and slide quietly into the bathroom with his toiletries, where he went through his usual morning routine.

After washing up and shaving, putting on yesterday's shirt (he bought black ones to save time washing and ironing them) and his burgundy tie and pants, and making sure his gun was in its leg holster, he was ready to go out for breakfast, since this wasn't the sort of joint with room service.  While he was combing his hair in the bathroom mirror, there was a knock on the door. Q froze, then pulled his gun and went to answer it.

When he came out of the bathroom, he saw that his partner was awake, watching the hotel room door warily with one hand under his pillow, grasping his hidden gun. After nodding and holding a finger to his lips to warn him to keep quiet, Q went and stood alongside the door, to be out of the line of fire in case whoever was outside started shooting. "Who is it?" he called.

"It's Riker!" came the reply from outside.

With a feeling of relief, Q stowed the gun back in his leg holster. Jean-Luc took his hand out from under the pillow and lay back, keeping the covers pulled up to his chin. His face wore an expression of curiosity; that voice had sounded familiar.

When Q opened the door, a tall man in a dark blue suit and coat stood outside.  He had a short black beard and piercing blue eyes beneath his Stetson hat, and he didn't look happy to see Q.

"Well, hello Willy!" Q greeted him with a grin.

"Stow it, smartass!" Detective Will Riker grumbled. "Thanks to you, our rabbit's gone underground. Now we have to find a way to flush him out."

"Don't blame me, he started shooting first."

Before Riker could say anything else, Jean-Luc called to him from his bed.  "Hello, Will."

"Captain?" Riker looked surprised, then pleased, when he saw the man in the bed.  "Captain Picard, is that you?"

"Yes, how are you, Will?" Jean-Luc looked pleased to see him too.

"Do you two know each other?" Q asked, filled with equal amounts of curiosity and jealousy.

"I'll say we do!" Riker came into the room and walked right up to the bed, much to Q's annoyance. "I served with Captain Picard in London, during the war. How are you, sir?"

"A bit knocked around, but otherwise intact." Jean-Luc sat up as he spoke, allowing the covers to fall to his waist, exposing his injured shoulder.

"What happened to you, sir?" Riker asked, blue eyes wide with concern.

"It's just a flesh wound, nothing serious."

"You said the same thing about that shrapnel you took during the Blitz," Riker commented. "The surgeons spent hours picking it out of your back."  Q remembered the many minute scars on his partner's back, visible only under bright light, which they seldom had in their bedroom.

"Well, at least it didn't hit the nurse I was covering. Or the child she was shielding."

"So who were you shielding this time? Him?"  He gave Q a venomous look. "It would be just like him to hide behind someone else when the bullets started flying."

Q slammed the door shut and stood glaring at Riker as he folded his arms over his chest, which he had trained himself to do whenever he got the urge to hit someone. "For your information, the Italian was shooting at me and Jean-Luc got in his way. I told him to stay behind me and let me do the talking, but he has an annoying tendency to be heroic whenever I'm in danger."

"That sounds like him, all right. If I had known that Captain Picard was your partner, I wouldn't have given you that tip." He then sat on the edge of the bed beside the injured man, to Q's further annoyance. "How the hell did you hook up with this loser, Captain?"

"Now, Will, don't be so hard on my partner, he's quite good at what he does. About a year ago, he and I were hired by two separate parties to locate the same _objet d'art_ , stolen by the Nazis during the war. We both located it at the same time, and while we were arguing over it we compared notes and discovered that neither of the parties we were working for was the rightful owner. So I persuaded Q to do the right thing and help me return the object to its rightful owner, who happened to be a charming young lady from France. She gave us a generous reward for its return, much more than we would have gotten from our original clients.

"Unfortunately, our clients had followed us to the rendezvous with the young lady, and neither of them was willing to give up the object, even to its rightful owner. We were forced to deal with them firmly. Fortunately, no one was hurt except for our erstwhile clients, who wound up in hospital, and then in jail, mostly due to Q's ingenuity and good aim. So you can see why we make such a good team."

"Yes, I see. You supply the brains and he supplies the muscle. Well, at least he's earning an honest living. Something that the good sisters at Saint Helene's always doubted he'd do."

Jean-Luc stared at him, eyebrows raised in surprise. "Did you grow up in Saint Helene's Home for Children too?"

"No, he got lucky," Q quipped. "He was adopted by a cop and his wife when he was ten. So tell me, Willy, did your new dad enroll you in the Police Athletic League's boxing team, so you could finally pick on someone your own size?"

"You started all the fights at Saint Helene's," Riker told him defiantly. "Even when you didn't start them, you were the cause of them."

"But nobody enjoyed kicking my runty ass as much as you did, you big bully."

"Like you didn't deserve it?" Riker half rose from the bed as if he wanted to kick his ass again right now.

"Calm down, Will, please," his former commanding officer admonished him gently.  He resumed his seat on the bed, looking sheepish. "My goodness, the nuns must have had their hands full keeping you two from killing each other."

"Oh, our fights never lasted too long, Johnny," Q told him cheerfully. "I made sure of that, since the nuns always put you to bed early when they caught you fighting.  So whenever I found myself losing, I fought dirty."

"Did you, now?" Jean-Luc looked at Riker's reddening face. "What did he do, Will?  Bite you?"

"Among other things," said Riker brusquely, looking like he wanted to lay five across Q's smirking face. "The little bastard liked hitting me in the stomach. He also liked grabbing and twisting things below the belt, if you catch my drift."

"There wasn't that much to grab. Besides, I didn't have to fight fair, I was smaller than you."

Riker started to rise from the bed again, saying "You son of a—"

"Will, don't do it! That's an order!" said Jean-Luc in a voice that left no doubt he had been an officer in the Royal Navy.  As Riker sat back down, shamefaced, Jean-Luc gave his partner a stern look. "And you stop baiting him, Q. You're not boys anymore and we have more serious matters to take care of."

"Yes, _mon Capitaine_ ," Q said with a playful salute. "So what are we going to do about the Italian, Willy?  Have your boys down at the precinct any idea where he went to ground?"

"Yeah, he's having lunch at Mama Leonie's this afternoon," Riker told him sarcastically. "Why don't you and I just stroll right in and join him for some pasta fazole?"

"Only if I can hide behind you. You're the cop, so he's sure to shoot at you first."

"Look, wise guy, do you want the bounty for this wop or not?"

"Mind your manners, Mr. Riker!" Jean-Luc told him severely. "There's no need to resort to racial epithets."

"If this wisenheimer wasn't your partner, sir, I'd be using stronger language."

"Just ignore him and go about your business. If he bothers you any more, I'll correct him. Now please tell us the last known location of Mr. Amaro."

So Detective Riker did his best to cooperate with the distinguished private investigator with whom he had served as a naval adjutant in London, while trying to ignore the man's annoying partner, whom he remembered as the most irritating kid at Saint Helene's Home for Children. He had arrived there at age seven, a dirty little, dark-haired boy with cunning brown eyes and a precocious knowledge of cards, which he had proceeded to teach the rest of the boys, fleecing them out of their meager allowance money and the candy the nuns always gave to good children at the end of the week. Despite being caught and punished and having his cards taken away again and again, he always managed to have a new deck before too many days had gone by. Young Will had been one of the few who refused to play cards with him after losing one too many times. He had done his best to warn the others, but some of them never learned, which was enough to keep the little cardsharp in candy even while he was being punished.

The new boy's background was as shady as his skills. Unlike the rest of the children at Saint Helene's, his parents were still living, but unable to take care of him because they were in jail. They were foreigners and con artists who specialized in games of chance. They had been busted at an after hours joint after fleecing the wrong sheep, a college student whose father was a cop. Their son became a ward of the state after they were sentenced to fifteen years apiece and no relative came forward to claim the boy. His original name had been Quinteros Adamos, which he claimed was Romany. The nuns changed it to Quincy Adams and tried to teach him good American ways, so a good American family could adopt him.

But none of the respectable middle class couples who came to Saint Helene's to adopt a child would take a chance on him. One look at his cocky little face with its usual smirk and too knowing dark eyes, along with the coin he kept tossing and the way he slouched, and you knew that this kid was trouble. A regular Dead End Kid, that's what he was. William Thomas had been the complete opposite; cheerful, kind, obedient, clean and thrifty, all the traditional Boy Scout values, which made him the butt of Quincy's jokes and acid-tongued remarks, and earned the Romany boy a beating whenever the nuns were out of sight. Even a Boy Scout could only take so much of Quincy's smart mouth.  Will hadn't been the only boy who despised him for his shifty ways and smartaleckiness, but most of the girls and even some of the boys had found him funny and charming.

As for the grownups, he had an angle and he played it for all he was worth, the poor little foreign boy who had nobody to love because his parents were in jail.  It had worked on most of the nuns (except Mother Kathryn; she had seen his type before when she was a teacher in a Catholic high school), but he never fooled any of the potential parents who came to Saint Helene's. He always pretended that he didn't care if he was adopted, but whenever a child was singled out for adoption he would disappear for hours. Nobody would see him again until suppertime, when he'd show up with red, swollen eyes to eat his supper in morose silence before going to bed the same way. The other kids soon learned never to comment on his red eyes if they didn't want a bloody red nose.

When Detective Kyle Riker and his wife Elizabeth chose young Will to be their son, he thought he would be happy to see the last of Saint Helene's and that smart-alecky kid Quincy, who always insisted upon being called Q. But on his last day at the orphanage, after saying goodbye to the nuns and all the other kids, the thing he remembered most was seeing Q watching him with bitterness and envy as he rode away in the back of his new parents' car. For one fleeting moment, the pesky kid had looked like a sad little boy who longed to run after the car and beg the Rikers to take him too.

He hadn't seen or heard from Q again until they were both adults. By then he was a detective first grade in the NYPD, and Quincy Adams, alias Q, was a small time grifter who spent his time between poker games helping people find lost items of value. But he had never broken the law, at least not seriously, and he always gave a sucker an even break at his card games, leaving him enough for cab fare home or a hotel room if he was new in town. And when he found out that Will Riker was on the force, the number of anonymous tips Detective Riker got every month doubled. True, he still had a smart mouth and a know-it-all attitude, never failing to insult Riker in public. But he had never steered him wrong, nor had he ever tried to hide someone who had committed a serious offense, even if he was a friend.

So Riker had thought of Q first when one of his other confidential sources had tipped him off about Marco Amaro, who had gone missing after his son was killed. Q had been helpful to him in the past about locating lost people as well as lost things. Like the witness to a mob murder, who turned out to be the young niece of the suspect. Barely seventeen, she had gone to Q for help after the murder, and he had taken her to Saint Helene's and turned her over to Mother Kathryn, who kept her safely hidden until she was able to testify at her uncle's trial.  Any doubts Riker had about her ability to testify against her own uncle faded when he learned that the victim had been her father. He hadn't been a made man, just an honest working man who had co-ownership of the family construction company with his older brother. The older brother had been forced to kill the younger one when he threatened to go to the cops after learning that his crooked brother was overcharging the Catholic Archdiocese for building materials for a new hospital.

Riker had never forgotten how Q had put his life in jeopardy to protect that young girl. She wasn't any kin of his; he wasn't even interested in her romantically. Maybe he just took pity on her as a fellow orphan. So Will had kept tabs on Q after he left town to avoid running into any of the mobster's associates. He'd been glad to learn that Q was doing well as a private investigator in Philly, and that he'd gone into partnership with an older man from Europe.

 _*But if I had known that Q's partner was Captain Jean-Luc Picard,*_   he now thought as he sat on the captain's bed talking to him, _*I would have thought twice about suggesting they impersonate the muscle from Philly when they found Amaro.  Well, the damage is done, and the captain seems to be taking it in stride, just like everything that happened during the Blitz in London.  But I'm going to make damned sure that he stays out of the line of fire from now on!*_

So after sharing with him the information about Amaro's possible whereabouts, Riker asked him where he thought the mobster might have gone to ground. It took Jean-Luc only a few minutes to figure it out.  "I think he's more likely to be found nearby, either in the theatre district or at the docks.  I suggest you and your men search the area near that abandoned theatre where we met him, as well as that shipping company by the East River that he owns."

"Okay, I'll send somebody to check out both places. You stay here, in case Amaro gets the urge to finish what he started."

"My dear Mr. Riker, I'm hardly in any condition to go looking for armed fugitives. That's what I keep Q around for, to do the legwork when my legs fail me." He smiled fondly at the man, who cracked his knuckles and gave him his smart-alecky grin in return.

"That's right, Johnny.  Why stand on your own two feet when you can stand on mine?  Don't worry, I'll find the _goomba_ who shot you and give him back his bullet.  But I'll be aiming a lot lower than his shoulder."

"I don't mind if a stray bullet hits him in passing, but make sure you don't kill him," Riker warned him. "I need to question him about a couple of other guys who've gone missing since his kid got shot."

"Would these guys be the same ones who were present at the church dance where his kid bought it?" Q asked shrewdly.

"Yes, by a strange coincidence they were both friends of the boy who shot Amaro's son."

"What a coincidence! I'll bet they expired when they were questioned a little too enthusiastically about the current whereabouts of their absent friend."

"Yes, Amaro does tend to get a bit carried away when he's questioning people," Riker agreed.

"I'm sure the people he questions get carried away too. All the way to the morgue!" Q wisecracked.

"Well, I'm certainly not dying to meet him again," Jean-Luc commented dryly.

"I'll make sure you don't," Riker told him, rising from the edge of the bed. "Come on, Q, let's go look for Amaro."

"I'll join you at the precinct after I get some breakfast for Jean-Luc and me.  This joint doesn't have room service and he needs hot food to help that shoulder heal."

"Okay, let me take you to a place I know that's clean and cheap, so the captain can get a good breakfast."

"As long as they have Earl Grey Tea," Jean-Luc sighed as he lay back against his pillows.

"Don't worry, sir, they do," Riker assured him fondly. As he walked out, Q lingered to give his partner a quick kiss and a murmured admonition to stay warm before he followed in the police detective's wake.

 

PART THREE

It was 8:07 a.m. by the time Q returned to the Albany Hotel. Along with breakfast, he also brought his partner's missing bag. He knew that his partner would be as grateful for a clean shirt as he would be for the omelet, toast and tea he was also bringing. The cops had found the bag at the abandoned theatre, along with some bloodstains and abandoned hats, but no bodies. Riker suspected that they had either removed the thugs Q had shot or they had walked out on their own; he now had the cops combing local hospitals for anybody who had been admitted with a gunshot wound in the last 24 hours.

When he got upstairs to 3601, he found his partner wide-awake and waiting for him. "I woke up when I heard you unlocking the door," he said when Q walked in. "I wanted to make sure it was you before I used this." He took his right hand out from under the covers, still holding his gun.

"Okay, now you know it's me you can put it away." Jean-Luc put the gun back under his pillow and Q served him breakfast. Of course he drank the tea first, which he needed, being thirsty from blood loss. Q had brought coffee and a fried egg sandwich for himself, which he ate while sitting on the edge of the bed while Jean-Luc ate his omelet, as they talked about the case.

"Still no sign of the Italian or his men.  Riker thinks the guys I shot may have gone to a local hospital, since they didn't find any bodies at the theater.  I was able to get your bag back after I described the contents."

"That was nice of Will," Jean-Luc commented. "I hope you thanked him properly on my behalf."

"Yes, I thanked him for you.  I was hoping for a little thanks myself, but I guess the sight of your old boyfriend made you forget all about me."  He said this in a joking way, but Jean-Luc could see the green-eyed monster Jealousy in his eyes and hastened to reassure him.

"You, my love, are unforgettable. As for Will Riker, he is merely a close friend I made during the war."

"Just how close were you? Not that I care what you did before we met, but I want to make sure that he's helping you out of friendship, not because he's hoping to charm his way back into your bed."

Jean-Luc chuckled, "My dear, he was never in my bed. Besides, I'm in no shape to fall for his charms, even if he were to ask me. Not that I wasn't tempted, of course. He is rather good-looking, don't you think?"

"I suppose he is," Q said offhandedly as he stuffed his sandwich wrapper inside his now empty cup, refusing to admit how jealous it made him to see his beloved partner get so chummy with the Goody-Two-Shoes cop who had made his life miserable when they were boys. "He's not my type. Never did care for men with beards." He chucked his empty cup toward a wastebasket and managed to get it inside with the first throw. "I suppose he grew it to look older. Any change would be an improvement on that face, especially one that hides as much of it as possible."

"I do believe you're jealous," Jean-Luc declared, eyeing him with amusement over his cardboard cup of Earl Grey tea. "Now why would you be jealous of an old Navy friend of mine? Especially when you know how I feel about you."

"How do you feel about me, Jean-Luc?" Q asked, leaning toward him on the bed as he regarded him intently.

"You know that I love you," Jean-Luc told him tenderly.

"Prove it."

So Jean-Luc put aside his cup of tea on the bedside table, wrapped his good arm around Q's neck, pulled him close and kissed him. Q held him around the waist, to avoid hurting his injured shoulder, as he kissed him back intensely, determined to drive all thoughts of Riker out of his head. It worked; all either of them could think of was how good it had felt the last time they were in bed together.

When they came up for air, Jean-Luc said breathlessly, "You know, it's rather unfair of you to kiss me this way, knowing I can't do anything else without hurting myself."

"I'm sorry," Q said, holding him close, breathing heavily in an effort to control himself. "I don't want to hurt you. I just want you to know that I love you, and I need to know that you love me too."

"I'll always love you," Jean-Luc murmured tenderly, rubbing his right cheek against Q's left cheek. He said it in French as well for emphasis. " _Je t’aime toujours_."

Q held him tighter as he gave a shuddering sigh, eyes closed as he reveled in the feel of his partner's stubbled cheek against his. "My love..." Then he spoke in French too. " _Mon amour_." This was only one of the languages he spoke in addition to the Romany dialect of his childhood. Then their lips met again and there was no more need of words.

The kiss lasted until Q forgot himself and grabbed him by the shoulders to pull him closer. Jean-Luc let out a pained gasp as his injured shoulder was squeezed. "Oh! I'm sorry!" Q let go of him hastily. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine.  Just a bit of a twinge, that's all." Jean-Luc lay back against his pillows, looking up at him longingly. "If it wasn't for this shoulder, I'd be pulling you down on top of me."

"I know, I know. I'd love to lie down with you too." He settled for a quick kiss and got up off the bed, shaking a little from suppressed desire. "You look so good," he told him longingly.

Jean-Luc sighed. "Don't torture yourself, my love. It's going to be a while before we dare do anything but kiss."

"I know, I know! I better get busy and find that freaking Italian who shot you." He busied himself for a while giving Jean-Luc his pain pills and antibiotic, making sure he was comfortable before taking his leave. Before he left, he whispered a naughty suggestion in his partner's ear, which made him laugh softly.

"Maybe, if you succeed in finding Amaro. I won't mind, as long as you're careful."

"I'll do my best." He kissed him one more time, grabbed his hat and left.

 

PART 4

Q spent the rest of the afternoon hanging around bars in the theater district listening to people's conversations, then walking by the docks near the warehouse that Amaro owned, listening to the dockworkers' schmoozing. Thanks to his extensive knowledge of languages he was able to eavesdrop on conversations in English, Italian, French, Russian, Polish and Yiddish, from which he pieced together the knowledge that Amaro hadn't been seen since late last month, when he'd disappeared after his son's funeral.

His wife claimed he was away on family business, but then Mrs. Amaro was a Mafia wife, so whether she was talking about her family or the mob family that her husband headed, she'd be correct either way. Nobody seemed to know about the meeting at the abandoned theater, but Q did hear about two of the boss's soldiers who had been to visit a sawbones in Harlem. People speculated that the two had been injured during a card game at an after hours club that Amaro owned up there.

Hearing the name of the club, Q smiled grimly. He knew the joint, his mother worked there as a hostess. When he came back from Germany after the war, he had gone to the club with his buddies to celebrate. Imagine his surprise when he saw his long-lost mother greeting people at the door. When he had confronted her in private, she hadn't exactly been overjoyed to see him. He learned she had been paroled from prison after eight years for good behavior. He also learned that his father had died of pneumonia in prison while Q was overseas with the army.

He didn't blame Papa for not even writing to him at Saint Helene's, since he was illiterate, but Mama was literate in three languages and had never written to him even once before she was released.  Nor had she ever visited him at the orphanage after she got out, which was long before he was drafted. She had never visited her husband in prison either.  She had also remarried a year after her release and never bothered to tell her new husband about her first marriage or her only child. She had never bothered to get a divorce either. He had wanted to kill her for abandoning him and Papa, but settled for shaking her down for a tidy sum by threatening to tell her husband she was still married to his father when she married him. After that, he avoided her like the plague and plied his card sharking trade at other clubs.

Counting cards and luring suckers into high stakes games had its pleasures, but not as much as finding out things about people and using that knowledge to his advantage. He soon found himself using what he'd learned during his games or heard on the streets to help a friend who'd fallen afoul of the law, or a dame whose husband or boyfriend had gotten himself or her into trouble. Like Amanda, the little blonde niece of that crooked contractor. He'd been a guest at the guy's house often enough to know his brother was as honest as he was crooked, and to befriend the girl, whose mother had died when she was a baby.

After Amanda had seen her uncle shoot her father during an argument, she’d come running to Q for help, too scared to go to the cops. He’d taken her to the safest place he knew, which was Saint Helene's, and turned her over to Mother Kathryn, knowing the tough Irish nun would make sure that the girl was safe. After the trial, he'd had to leave town for a while to avoid the guy's associates. So he'd gone to Philly and reinvented himself as a private investigator. That was when he met Jean-Luc Picard.

Q sighed as he leaned against a wall outside a dockside bar, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. His life hadn't been the same since he met the quiet, dignified P.I. while they were both looking for that black bird covered with jewels beneath its enamel veneer. Damned if Jean-Luc hadn't figured out first that both their clients were stringing them along; neither of them owned the black bird, they just wanted to get it before the other one did. The real owner, that classy French dame with big, brown eyes and long, black hair, would have been happy to pay them what the bird was really worth. But Jean-Luc had insisted upon them being gentlemen and accepting only their usual fees. With a generous bonus added, of course. Mademoiselle Troi had no objection; she said it was worth it to recover her father's legacy from the Nazis who had stolen it.

His cigarette nearly burned down to his fingers as he stood in thought, taking only an occasional puff, but never inhaling. The smokes were only a prop, to give him something to do with his hands while he checked to see if he was being followed. So far, he had been lucky; other than Riker, he hadn't run into anybody he knew back then. But his memories kept his mind as busy as his eyes, which kept checking out the streets around him as he continued to prop up the wall by the bar. He lit a new cigarette from the old one and continued to reminisce.

After returning the black bird and dealing with the Nazi bastards who had followed them to the rendezvous, he and Jean-Luc had stayed in touch. They had worked together on two more cases, during which Q found himself lost in admiration of this remarkable man. He also soon found himself short of money to pay the rent on his little hole-in-the-wall office, which doubled as his home since it had a Murphy bed in the back by the bathroom. When he asked Jean-Luc if he could help him find cheaper digs, the older man had generously invited him to move in with him. So Q had done so, glad to find that Jean-Luc's apartment over his storefront office was a lot bigger than his had been.

He had been given the spare room next to Jean-Luc's, which had formerly been used for storage. It was just big enough for an army cot and a small chest of drawers, big enough to hold his few belongings, along with the little closet that held his few suits.  The only drawback was that Jean-Luc's flat was a lot colder than his had been. Especially Q's little room, where the radiator always seemed to be on the fritz. Eventually Jean-Luc responded to his complaints about the cold by inviting him to share his bed.

This made Q wary; he was no stranger to sex with men, but he had never gotten the impression that Jean-Luc was interested in anything but women. This made sharing an apartment with him even harder, especially in the evenings when they were going back and forth between the shower and their bedrooms. The few tantalizing glimpses he'd gotten of the older man's still trim body and graceful musculature made him long to see more. But what if Jean-Luc wasn't interested in him that way?  What if he was just being nice because he had a bigger bed and better heating in his room?  If Q made a move on him and was rejected, could they go on living under the same roof comfortably?

On a particularly cold night, just before Christmas, Q finally got sick of shivering beneath two blankets on his cot and accepted Jean-Luc's invitation to share his bed.  It was a nice, big bed, full-sized, with feather pillows and a down quilt. Something, either shyness or fear, made him stay up late that night until he was sure that Jean-Luc was already asleep.  When he finally came to bed in his flannel pajamas, he found Jean-Luc, in his silk pajamas, sleeping peacefully on the right side, which was up against the wall.  The bedside lamp had been left on for him, so he turned it off and got under that nice, thick quilt.

At first he laid stiffly next to Jean-Luc, just listening to him breathe in the dark. Gradually he moved closer and closer, finally ending up lying on his left side next to his partner, close enough to feel the warmth of his compact body. Reaching out beneath the covers, he cautiously put his arm around Jean-Luc's waist and rested his head on the pillow next to his. When he didn't wake up, Q gave a sigh of relief and allowed himself to relax at last. He slept warm that night for the first time since he moved in six weeks ago.

After three nights of sleeping cuddled up to him, Q got up the courage to put both arms around his waist and hold him close. Jean-Luc made no objection; he seemed to enjoy their new sleeping arrangements. So when Q began nuzzling his neck on the fifth night, it didn't surprise him to hear the other man emit soft murmurs of pleasure. By the seventh night, when Q reached for him, Jean-Luc turned over and lay in his arms, reaching up to stroke his face tenderly.

It was his tenderness that won Q over; very few of the men he'd had sex with in the Army had bothered to show him any. Especially the ones who expected blow jobs or a piece of ass in return for the supplies he was in charge of requisitioning. He hadn't minded putting out for the nice ones who always came across. But the nasty ones who tried to screw him over by giving him less than what they promised after getting their rocks off--well, they required special handling. He learned to always have a buddy within earshot, so he could signal him verbally to peek through a door left ajar, or a window shade left up a crucial few inches. The threat of exposure always made the bastards more reasonable.

But even the nicest guys he put out for had never touched him so gently, or allowed him to kiss them. Jean-Luc not only allowed kissing, he encouraged it. He also liked being touched; Q loved caressing him through his soft, silk pajamas, running his hands over his chest (which was surprisingly hairy), his thighs, and his groin. Jean-Luc caressed him through his thicker pajamas in the same places, as well as his back and his butt when they were lying belly to belly, enjoying the feel of their erections pressing into one another. This soon led to touching on bare skin as the pajamas were removed, piece by piece, and dropped into a heap beside the bed while the two men became entangled in each other's arms. The first time Jean-Luc had taken his erect cock in his hand, bringing him to orgasm after a few minutes of firm stroking, Q had nearly passed out from delight. When he recovered, he returned the favor by stroking Jean-Luc's cock to the point of orgasm. Just before he came, Q replaced his hand with his mouth and sucked him off, making him cry out in French as he ran his sensitive fingers through Q's hair.

After that, they stopped wearing pajamas for the next few days as they happily explored each other's bodies and learned each other's sexual preferences. Mutual masturbation was fun, as well as oral sex, which they both liked giving as well as receiving. But the first time they fucked, Jean-Luc wanted him to be on top. By that time, he would have done anything for him. So after making sure he was well lubed, he mounted him from behind and entered him slowly, treating Jean-Luc with the same tenderness he had been shown. After a few slow, deep thrusts, he found himself going faster, harder and deeper, while his partner moaned and thrust back against him, urging him to keep on fucking him as hard as he could. When he came, Jean-Luc shuddered and moaned beneath him, while Q felt his rectal muscles squeezing his cock hard. That made him come too, more intensely than he'd ever come for any man.

When they were lying in each other's arms afterwards, Q finally got up the nerve to tell him he loved him. Jean-Luc had stroked his face tenderly and murmured, "I was hoping you did. I knew that I loved you within days after meeting you. It was why I invited you to live here, you know."

Q had told him, "I'm glad you did," and kissed him. After holding him for a while, he added, "It feels good being here with you. Not just the sex, but just lying here, holding you. It feels like we've been together for years."

"I know; it feels right to me too. I think it means we belong together, that we were destined to cross one another's paths and become lovers. Soul mates, if you will."

"That's funny, my grandmother used to tell me that I would know my true love when we met because our souls would become joined together, like twins. She said that true lovers would always be twin souls, no matter how different they were otherwise."

Jean-Luc had laughed softly as he snuggled up to him. "Well, we're certainly a pair of opposites, you and I."

"I don't care how old you are. I love you. And I want to stay with you forever."

"I hope you do, my dear. I really do...”

Q came out of his reverie to find himself uncomfortably aroused while still leaning up against the wall by the bar. Good thing it was already dark outside, so it was less likely to be noticed by passersby. Last thing he needed was some horny sailor trying to pick him up. He drew several deep breaths, letting them out slowly while he regained control of himself. Gradually he lost his erection and was able to walk away from the bar with his usual catlike pace. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was 7:40 p.m. already.

 _*Time to head back to The Albany and see how Jean-Luc is doing. Better take him some food, too. He's sure to be hungry, after waiting for me all day. Unless Will Riker got there first and brought him something for supper.*_ The thought made Q quicken his steps. _*I'll be damned if I leave that flatfoot alone with my partner long enough for temptation to set in! I know that Jean-Luc is the faithful type, but after all, he's only human, and Will is stereotypically tall, dark and handsome, God damn him!*_

PART FIVE

Arriving at The Albany with his white paper bag of deli food at 9:30 p.m., Q stopped at the front desk to pay for another night in their room. While he was doing so, he casually inquired, "Has anybody been by to see me or my friend?"

"Yes, Mr. Adams, that blue-eyed cop with the beard was here earlier asking for you," the clerk told him. "When I told him you were still out, he said he'd come back later."

"Good, I need to talk to him. When he gets here, send him up. And if anybody else asks to see me or Mr. Smith, please call the room first and let me know."

"Oh, wait!" said the clerk, holding up one finger. "As a matter of fact, somebody else was here earlier asking for you. A man in a pinstriped suit and a dark overcoat. He was tall and dark-haired, like the cop, but he was clean-shaven. He spoke politely enough, but he looked kind of mean. When he smiled, it looked like a shark baring its teeth. His eyes were like a shark's too, small, black and hard."

Q fought to keep his expression under control as he recognized the description of Marco Amaro. Oddly enough, his street name was Marc the Shark, since he did most of his business down by the docks and owned a seafood restaurant. "No kidding?" he said calmly as he replaced his wallet inside his jacket. "Did this guy give you a name?"

"No, but he said to tell you that an old friend from the theatre district was here to see you, and he was looking forward to seeing the guys from Philly again."

 _*I'll bet he is!*_   Q thought. _*I hope that I see him first, before he has a chance to pull his gun!*_   Smiling as if he hadn't a care in the world, he thanked the clerk, took his bag of deli food and headed for the elevator.

When he got to his room, he opened the door and saw that his partner was awake, sitting up in bed with the lamp lit on his bedside table. "Hello, Johnny!" Q greeted him cheerfully. "I brought you some supper."

Jean-Luc didn't say a word. He just sat there staring at him, looking uncomfortable. "What's wrong, Johnny?" a worried Q asked. "Does your shoulder hurt?"

"Yes, it does," Jean-Luc said as he blinked twice. He then looked sideways without turning his head, toward the bathroom on the right.

Q was immediately on his guard. The double blink was their signal for something urgent that had to be discussed, but couldn't because there was a third party present. That meant that there was someone else in the room. But where?

Jean-Luc's eyes moved to the right again. Q took a couple of steps forward and paused near the foot of the bed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow moving in the doorway of the unlit bathroom on his left. If it was Will Riker, he would have come out the moment he heard Q's voice. So Q dropped the deli bag and said "Oops! Hope I didn't spill the soup." He got down on one knee to pick up the bag, taking his gun from his ankle holster while he did so.

He stood up, holding the gun in his right hand, concealed behind the bag in his left hand, as Marco Amaro came out of the bathroom with his own gun in his hand. "Hello, Quincy," he said, smiling like a hungry shark at a fat tuna, his beady black eyes as cold and hard as a shark's.

"Marco, old buddy!" Q greeted him cheerfully, ignoring the gun in the gangster's hand. "Nice of you to drop in."

"Couldn't stay away, once I learned the two wise guys from Philly was here," Amaro told him, still smiling as he aimed his gun at Q. "I shoulda killed your partner first, but I wanted to wait until you was here so I could do you both at the same time."

"Oh, come on, Marco! You're not still mad at me for calling you a monkey? I didn't know you were a _capo_ , I thought you were a _consigliore_."

"Even one of my soldiers deserves more respect than what you showed me at that theatre. Marco Amaro is not a man to be trifled with."

"Well, I'm not trifling now. Come on, Marco, let's have a bite to eat and talk this over. Look, I got soup and sandwiches from the deli." He held out the white paper bag toward him while he aimed the gun behind it.

"You can stick your soup and sandwiches up your-" Before Amaro could finish his sentence, Q shot him through the paper bag. He was aiming for the heart, but got him in the left shoulder. Amaro fell backwards, his own gun flying from his hand. Q dropped the bag and kicked the gun out of reach while Jean-Luc dived for his own gun under the pillow. He held it on Amaro while Q ran over to him, careful not to get in his partner's line of fire.

"Are you okay? Did he hurt you?" Q asked anxiously as he sat beside him on the opposite side of the bed.

"Not much," said Jean-Luc tersely as he got a bead on Amaro.

"How the hell did he get in here?" Q demanded.

"I think that pain pill you gave me before you left must have dulled my senses.  Otherwise, I would have heard him picking the lock. But I didn't wake up until I felt a cold gun barrel poking me in the left temple.  When I opened my eyes and saw him smiling down at me, I was sure he had killed you already.  But then he asked me where you were, and I was so relieved he hadn't found you." Jean-Luc kept his gun pointed at Amaro, while Q put his arms around his waist and squeezed him gently.

"What did you say to him?" Q asked.

"I told him that you were out looking for him. He said 'What a coincidence, I've been out looking for you guys all day.' Then he poked his gun barrel into my injured shoulder and asked me, 'Was this my bullet?' It hurt like hell, but I just gritted my teeth and said yes. Then I asked him what he wanted, and he said he wanted to finish what he started, but he wanted you here first so he could finish us both off at the same time. So he hid in the bathroom, after warning me not to say anything to warn you when you came in, or he would shoot me first."  Jean-Luc never took his eyes off Amaro as he spoke, eyeing the fallen gangster with contempt as he laid half in and half out of the bathroom with blood pouring out of his shoulder.

"Thank God you're still alive." Q gave him a quick hug, careful not to lean on the injured shoulder. "Let me clean up the mess and call Riker."

"Don't bother, that sounds like him now."  Jean-Luc had his head cocked and was listening to the sound of footsteps and voices out in the corridor.  "He sounds like he's got someone with him."

"Yep, that sounds like my favorite flatfoot all right." So Q sat beside him on the bed and waited, one arm draped around him affectionately.  When a knock fell on the door, they both called out, "Come in!"

The door opened, revealing Detective Riker, who filled the doorway. "Captain, we've got to get you out of here!" he said urgently. "I just learned that Amaro was seen heading this way-"  He stopped abruptly when he saw Amaro lying on the floor, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

"I'm afraid it's too late for that, Will," Jean-Luc told him politely.

"Holy sh-Excuse me, sir!" Riker came forward and bent over the injured gangster to examine his wound. "Well, hello, Marco! Hey, Doc, here's your first patient."

The person he had been talking to out in the corridor came into the room. She was a knockout redhead in a conservative blue coat and dress suit, carrying a medical bag. "I'm Doctor Crusher," she announced. "Which of you shot this man?"

"He did," said Jean-Luc, with a nod at his partner, who waved cheerfully at the doctor. "I'm just keeping him covered, in case he's not as hurt as he looks."

"Son of a bitch!" Amaro cursed loudly at the detective who was trying to stop his bleeding.

"Oh, he's hurt all right," Doctor Crusher said coolly as she put her bag on the floor, removed her coat and tossed it on the unoccupied bed.  "Will brought me here to examine you, Captain Picard, but I think I'd better tend to him first."

"By all means," Jean-Luc said graciously.

"Sure, go ahead," Q told her. "But don't bother to sterilize your instruments, Toots."

"That's Doctor Toots to you, mister," she told him as she picked up her bag and went over to the injured man.  While she was tending to Amaro, Riker went into the bathroom to clean up.  He then used the phone in the room to call for an ambulance and went downstairs to the lobby to wait for it.

After making sure Amaro wouldn't bleed to death before the ambulance arrived, Doctor Crusher turned her attention to Jean-Luc. She unwrapped and examined his shoulder while asking Q what medications he had given him, then gave him a shot and re-bandaged it professionally with fresh gauze and tape. "I don't suppose you saved the bullet, so we can use it as evidence against Amaro?" she asked hopefully.

"What do you mean, ‘we?’ You a cop too?" Q asked.

"I'm a police surgeon. My husband, Lieutenant Jack Crusher, died in the line of duty ten years ago. One of Amaro's men shot him."

"I'm surprised you didn't let him bleed to death," Q commented.

"Oh, but I want him to live," Doctor Crusher assured him. "He still has to tell us what happened to the boys who were at the dance where his son was killed.  Then I want him to tell us who shot my husband. Which he'd better do, if he wants any more pain reliever," she added, loud enough for Amaro to hear her, as he sat propped against the wall by the bathroom door.

"Dream on, baby!" the gangster sneered. "Just 'cause you patched me up don't mean I have to squeal on one of my boys for you."

"Oh, you'll squeal all right, when the pain medication I gave you starts to wear off. You won't get another drop until you tell us everything we want to know.  I doubt you're tough enough to stand the pain of a bullet in your shoulder."

"I can take anything the world dishes out."

"Okay, then, I won't bother to anesthetize you when it's time to remove the bullet," the doctor told him calmly. "I'll make sure you're strapped down and wide awake, and I'm going to take my time."

Jean-Luc flinched as he recalled how painful it had been to have the bullet removed from his shoulder. Q just smiled, relishing the thought of Amaro's agony at the hands of his victim's widow. "I suggest you tape his mouth shut, Doc," he told her. "Otherwise your ears will burn from the language he'll use."

"I've heard it all before," Crusher said carelessly as she repacked her bag. "I not only grew up on the Lower East Side, I work in the charity ward of Saint Vincent's Hospital."

"Speaking of hospitals, you can stop looking for those guys I shot at the theater." Q told her about the gossip he had heard at the docks about two of Amaro's soldiers being treated for bullet wounds by a doctor uptown.

"That figures," Doctor Crusher commented. "There are always a few shady doctors up there who don't mind working after hours. Most of them no longer have licenses to practice medicine. Those who do usually owe a lot of money to Amaro's loan sharks."

When Detective Riker came back, accompanied by a couple of medics with a stretcher, he had to tell them which of the two injured men was the one they were here for. As they hauled Amaro away, yelling for his lawyer, Crusher filled him in on the tip Q had given her. "I'll look into it," said Riker.  "Thanks, Q." He left, taking the doctor with him and leaving a fresh bag of deli food he'd had delivered to the hotel to replace the one Q had sacrificed to shoot Amaro.

The two private investigators then enjoyed a late supper, washed down with plenty of Earl Grey tea and a bottle of good brandy Riker had thoughtfully included. After speculating how long it would take for Riker to finish taking their statements tomorrow and arranging for them to get paid for schlepping themselves out here, they both settled down for the night. Nestling in one another's arms in the same bed, they spent some time just kissing, not daring to do much else until Jean-Luc was better.

"Hey, Johnny," Q murmured between kisses, "do you remember the first night we slept together, in that cold room of yours?"

"Umm, yes, I do," Jean-Luc said sleepily, his head pillowed on his partner's nearly hairless chest.

"Looks like it's déjà vu all over again," Q commented, stroking him fondly.

"Yes, it is rather cold in here," Jean-Luc agreed.

"So do you think we could do something to keep warm?"

"I thought we were."

"Yeah, but we could be a lot warmer if we-" Q suddenly found a strong, sensitive hand pressed over his smart mouth.

"Don't say it," Jean-Luc told him severely. "Don't even think it. Not while I'm still in pain from this damned shoulder."

"Ah, come on! All you have to do is lie back. I'll do all the work."

"I didn't realize it was work to you," Jean-Luc teased.

"Best job I ever had," Q assured him.

"Well, take the night off. You've earned it.  Now good night." He kissed him firmly and settled down again.

So Q had to be content with just holding him and thinking of all the things they could do together once he was better. But at least they had both survived to do them. He gave silent thanks to his deity for the survival of his twin soul, as well as a blessing to his long dead Romany grandmother for telling him how to recognize his true love. He thought that the old lady would approve of his partner, despite him not being a gypsy. In many ways, he was just as crafty as one. So they drifted off to sleep together, keeping each other warm through the night with the satisfaction of another job well done, as well as with their mutual affection.

THE END


End file.
